


what an expensive fate

by reina_inefable



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: I PROMISE ITS NOT GROSS OR ABUSIVE OR FETISHISING MURDER, I just wanted to try something new - Freeform, M/M, Reporter shane having a crush, Serial killer Ryan au, walking in the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reina_inefable/pseuds/reina_inefable
Summary: Ryan doesn’t like his job, but someone has to do it.If only a certain journalist would leave him alone first.





	what an expensive fate

**Author's Note:**

> So before we start I’d like 2 say that while I’m fascinated by true crime I do NOT condone intentional murder of any kind
> 
> These are not necessarily my personal views. I simply wanted to try my hand at writing something I may or may not agree with.
> 
> So uhhh TW?? Minor minor deaths. Very lightly described. Death penalty discussion, and cussing. If any other triggers should be added, please let me know.
> 
> Title from bellyache by Billie Eilish
> 
> Anyways with those Disclaimers out of the way ENJOY LMAO

Ryan didn't like his job, but someone had to do it.  
  
Unlike other serial killers, he didn't derive pleasure from the act of murder, nor did he enjoy seeing the life drain slowly from his victims’ eyes, nor did he feel particularly powerful or important doing it.  
  
He was more than aware that what he did was, at the very least, morally wrong. Atrocious, others would argue. Depraved. Heinous. Despicable. The list goes on.  
  
Yet, if murder is so wrong, why are so many people given the death penalty? Is shooting someone in the head truly worse than sentencing them to death? In Ryan’s eyes, it was a bit hypocritical; a double standard, if you will. It had taken him some time to wrap his head around the concept, how people rationalized that, but he eventually understood.  
  
Killing innocent people is murder. Killing guilty people is justice.  
  
That isn't to say that every person gets what they deserve. Some innocent people are unfairly imprisoned. Some criminals aren’t. Though the justice system is a nice idea in theory, it’s deeply flawed in practice.  
  
Maybe Ryan was guilty. But killing rapists and child molesters and abusers couldn’t be worse than those same lowlifes walking free.

 

* * *

 

 

“Is murder bad?”

The question caught Ryan off-guard, so much he had to stop himself from physically shaking his head and blinking. Instead, he frowned at his shoes, directing his gaze away from the house, the scene of the crime.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said,” the blonde man repeated, “‘Is murder bad?’”

For a second, Ryan blanched, his heart skipped several beats, and he thought, _I’m caught!_ all at once; but the man’s brown eyes were curious and honest and unassuming, so he forced himself to remain calm. “Why do you ask?”

He turned. The man— _Shane_ , he thinks was his name— gestured to where a crowd of people had gathered around the police tape that surrounded the house. “Jason Lacroft. Accused rapist, shot in the head. Pictures of his many victims placed ritualistically around him,” Shane dictated, much too eager for Ryan’s taste.

Ryan sighed and walked away. From Shane. From the crowd. From his own work. Everything. He needed to think.

Shane followed, his long legs easily matching Ryan’s quick strides. “When you do think he’s gonna strike again?”

No reply on Ryan’s part.

“I don’t know,” continued Shane, “Pretty weird how you always hear about serial killers in the 20th century, but you never hear about recent ones, don’t you think? Maybe it was like a trend or something. It’s interesting to have one—“

“Look, man,” Ryan spat at him, “if you want details about the case, you’re gonna have to ask somebody else. Today’s my day off.”

It was common for reporters to swarm crime scenes like vultures as soon as police arrived, especially in a city like Los Angeles, in which so many of its inhabitants relied on the media and publicity to make a living.

In recent years, it wasn’t unsurprising to find murders like this one. A rapist, an abuser, a pedophile, always unconvicted, found dead, with evidence of their own past crimes surrounding them in the form of photographs, newspaper clippings, or court or case documents. The LAPD easily recognized that the murders were all connected, as the signature, M.O., and, most likely, motive were so distinctly and blatantly the same. Yet, this brought the police no closer discovering to the perpetrator’s identity. The killer hadn’t been caught yet, so meticulous were they in cleaning up their traces. Clearly someone wanted revenge, but who? The media was quick to slap on a catchy moniker on the murderer: _The Justice Killer._

Courtesy of yours truly, Ryan Bergara: official LAPD detective by day, unofficial Justice Killer by night.

Shane was one of those journalists so awfully desperate for a scandalous story they would do nearly anything to get one. Everywhere the police went, Shane followed close by, like a dog chasing after a ball, begging for exclusive insights and interviews with anyone willing to oblige. For the most part, this was fine. Reporters, for however much they lied and exaggerated and twisted people’s words like clay in the news they fed to the public, needed to make a living, too.

The problem was, this particular journalist seemed to have certain fixation on Ryan.

“The question is, ‘Is it justified?’I think it almost is,” Shane said, as if Ryan hadn’t just politely told him to fuck off. “I still don’t understand how Jason Lacroft was acquitted. Must have had a damn good lawyer, huh?”

He kept talking. Ryan tuned him out. Hopefully he’d get the hint.

It was apparent only after several minutes he did not. Or maybe he did, and simply chose to ignore it.

“ _What do you want?_ ” Ryan asked, irritatedly. He stopped walking, crossed his arms. “An interview, huh? An exclusive? A VIP ticket past the police tape?”

Shane frowned, adjusted his grip on his notebook. “No- no- I’m just—”

“Just what? Trying to get me to talk? Give you information you’ll take out of context for publicity?”

“I’m—”

“And don’t give me a bullshit excuse—“

“I—”

“I’ve heard all before.”

“If you’d let me fucking talk!” Shane said sharply. He breathed in deeply. “I’m just trying to strike up a conversation.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.” He turned on his heel and stormed off. Dry, golden leaves crunched under his feet; a sign autumn had arrived. He glanced at his watch, then at the dark grey sky, and buried his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He’d better hurry home.

 

* * *

  
Soon enough, a pleasant drizzle manifested into a downpour.

“ _Shit_.” Ryan popped the collar of his jacket. Expectedly, it didn’t help much.

When he stopped at an intersection to wait for the pedestrian green light to go on, he noticed a very annoying reporter had followed his steps, now holding a large, red umbrella over his head.

“Did you fucking follow me? Goddammit, what is it with you journalists and stalking people?”

“I didn’t follow you. I just happen to be going the same way.”

Ryan huffed.

“Personally, I’m not a fan of showering with rain,” Shane commented, turning to look at the detective. “Wanna share the umbrella?”

“You’re fucking annoying.”

“But I’m offering you my umbrella, aren’t I?”

Ryan didn’t respond.

Shane exhaled. He stepped closer to him, making sure the umbrella was covering both of them. “I don’t know why you hate me so much.”

“I don’t hate you. I just think you’re annoying.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled up in a subtle smile, holding back a laugh. “Why?”

The sign turned green. They walked together.

“I don’t know,” Ryan said, “Maybe it’s because you never leave me the fuck alone? There’s always so many more people to interview, so much more to do, and yet you always choose to irritate me. Madej, I’d say you have an unhealthy obsession with me.”

“There’s a reason for that, you know.” Shane laughed.

Ryan scowled. “In my line of work, obsessions never turn out well, so I hope you keep yours in check before I do.”

The reporter laughed. He glanced at his companion, and suddenly his face contorted into confusion. “Wait, you— your— God, you really haven’t noticed, have you?”

 

* * *

 

  
Eventually, they reached Ryan’s apartment complex, soaked, having made most of the trip in awkward silence.

“This is mine.” He fished his keys out of his pocket. “Thanks for..” The umbrella? The company? Walking him home? He gestured vaguely at Shane. “...everything.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.”

The door creaked open as Ryan curtly nodded goodbye. It swung closed.

A knock immediately after. He frowned.

Shane was behind the door. _Quel surprise_.

Ryan stared expectantly.

The journalist cleared his throat. “I, uh, I forgot to ask you something.” He rubbed the stubble on his cheek. _Nervous tick_ , Ryan observed.

“Well? Spit it out.”

“Would— would you ever be interested in getting a drink? Sometime? With me, I mean?”

“Like, a date?”

“Uh, yeah that’s the bottom line, yes.”

The world stopped, in Ryan’s eyes. The cars on the street halted, he ceased to breathe, the grains of sand were suspended mid-air in the universal hourglass of time. Realization struck him like fucking lightning and something in his brain clicked in place.

So that’s what this was all about.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone on a date, much less have someone be genuinely interested in him. Suddenly it seemed incredibly obvious Shane had really put up with his shit for so many months because of a silly crush, and Ryan’s good-for-nothing detective mind couldn’t piece it together.

Ryan found it endearing. Maybe he’d give him a chance.

He wondered what that said about him.

Time unfroze, and in his mind, he produced a polite response.

In reality, he slammed the door shut.

 _Fucking impulsive!_ , shrieked a little voice in his subconscious.

“Fuck!” He brought his hand to his forehead, grimacing, yanked the door open once more, leaned against the threshold in what he hoped was a somewhat casual manner.

Shane was stunned, eyes gaping, mouth ajar. Stepping back, he rearranged his face into something less incredulous. “A simple no would’ve sufficed.”

“Sorry just— impulses. Need to— need to work on that.” Ryan swallowed. “Anyways, does— does Friday work for you?”

It took the other man a second to process the response, and when he did, his face lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “Yeah! Yeah, Friday’s perfect. Seven okay for you?”

“Eight. Don’t care where, just not too expensive. Unless it is. In which case”—he raised his eyebrows—“you’re paying.”

“Yeah- yeah, of course! Pick you up at eight, then,” said Shane, barely hiding his grin.

“Okay.”

Ryan definitively closed the door this point and locked it. Gently, he leaned against it. He laughed like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

If he could have seen through the wall, he would have seen Shane doing the same on the outside of the door.

Being nervous usually caused Ryan to be rash and more impulsive than usual. But he handled this situation decently, so he rewarded himself with a glass of wine from an unopened bottle, the most expensive one in his kitchen.

Once he’d calmed down, he put the glass in the sink and made his way to his study.

The study was a mess, like there had been an explosion that had left it littered with stacks of papers and files and newspaper clippings all over the desk, floor, and walls. A mess to anyone else, but at least _he_ knew where everything was.

There was a list resting atop his laptop. With a red pen, he crossed out _Jason Lacroft_.

A wave of almost perverse satisfaction washed over him.

He got to work.

 

* * *

 

  
An array of photographs surrounded the body like an aura of guilt. Ryan was careful to make sure the blood that had pooled around his victim didn’t stain them.

He stuffed his gun in his satchel. It was a .22 pistol with a silver barrel, with a silencer on its end. He liked this particular kind; it made only a click when fired.

Tears quietly trickled down his cheeks. However deranged people might deem the act of murder, he wasn’t a monster. Always a small part of him felt remorse. He prayed for forgiveness, hoped that God could feel his regret, understand why he did what he did.

He mentally double checked that he had not touched anything with his bare hands, skimming the episode in his mind. Picking the lock, entering, the confrontation, shooting, displaying the pictures. He didn’t like remembering the details.

Specks of dust floated in the rays of warm sunlight that managed to filter through the closed blinds. _Late afternoon_.

It was risky to kill this early, when the sun hadn’t quite set yet, but he had a date to get to.

 

* * *

 

 

Standing just outside of his door with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his glasses askew, Shane looked absolutely awkward.

“Hey! Uh, eight,” he said, holding up his watch for Ryan to see, “just like you said.”

Ryan locked the door behind him, raising an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

Shane smiled, a goofy, lopsided smile. “You said to surprise you.”

“So you actually remembered.” Ryan offered a small grin.

“I did.”

As they walked down the street, a set of police cars and an ambulance sped past them, jarring light show and sirens and all.

 _Already?_ , he thought, _They’re getting faster._

“What do you think it is this time?” Shane asked.

“No idea,” Ryan lied.

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t write romance for shit lol !!!! But I’m doing my best ok I promise one day I will have an amazing romance and then I’ll write a book with it as inspiration y’all will see
> 
> I wanted this to have an ominous ending but I couldn’t bring myself to do it (YET) so take this very neutral ending (Someday I’ll write something darker. Someday!)
> 
> Anyways I hope y’all enjoyed this thing I wrote :^)
> 
> Dark side of wikihow show me how to link my tumblr @apatheticallyromantic on here
> 
> -nani


End file.
